


The Borders Between Us

by wunderlichkind



Series: wunder's OtherOutlanderTales [10]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bikers, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Forbidden Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2019-10-07 17:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17370638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wunderlichkind/pseuds/wunderlichkind
Summary: Fergus and Marsali are members of opposing biker gangs, and that's not the only obstacle to their relationship.





	1. One

The bar is dim, light coming only from the low hanging lamps over the counter and the narrow set of windows right under the ceiling, facing the highway. The setting sun streams into the room in starch beams cutting through the dusty air, bathing anything outside their reach into a muted amber. Her hair, golden like ripe corn, seems to emit its own light, the brightest spot in his field of vision. He can’t help but stare at it. 

The barkeep slides his drink over the counter and Fergus accepts it without taking his eyes from where she’s dancing and laughing with some other girls. He knows she’s aware of his gaze from the way she moves, knows she’s taunting him, even though she hasn’t so much as blinked at him since she entered the bar. 

The black jeans hug her legs and ass in a way that makes him remember exactly how her milky skin feels under his hands, reminds him of every curve of her body, and creates in him the urge to drag her out of the dingy bar before anyone else sees – a surge of possessiveness he hadn’t known to be a side of him. She runs her hands through her hair laughing, and he can’t decide what to focus on – the memory of his own hands tangled in her blonde tresses or the ghost of her kiss eliciting goose bumps all over his body.

He empties his glass in one long swallow, setting it down on the counter again, onto a crumpled ten dollar bill. Without looking at her again, he stands and walks out through the back door. 

The sun has almost set now and the parking lot is bathed in a muted evening light, almost orange in color. Fergus leans against the whitewashed brick of the bar’s outside wall, lighting a cigarette. He takes the first drag and closes his eyes, reveling in the warmth of the fading sun on his skin. He’s uncomfortably conscious of the heavy leather of his jacket weighing on his shoulders, and not for the first time asks himself if he made a mistake getting involved with these people, if he’d been too desperate for a family, any kind of home.

His stomach flutters with nerves and he is thankful for the small remedy the cigarette provides. They chose this bar carefully, it being located in a sort of no man’s land between the gangs’ territories, but it wouldn’t be wise for her to be seen with him, even here. So he waits, like he always does, and he prays she’ll come to him eventually, like she always does. 

Fergus is just putting out the cigarette under the heel of his boot when the back door opens and releases her into the almost dark lot. Her own leather jacket is blacker than the approaching night, taunting him like a bad omen for a moment, until she smiles and nods towards his bike.

„Let’s go?“

He nods, returning her smile and pushing himself off the wall. His stomach settles a little when she swings onto the seat of his bike behind him and wraps her arms around his middle. The roar of the engine coming to life beneath them is soon joined by the sound of the wind rushing by their ears. The outside noises drown out his worries bit by bit, catapulting him into a simpler place, one made up of freedom and the warmth of her touch.

___________________________________________________________________

 

„How did it go?“ Marsali asks softly, stepping back into the small living room and closing the door to her mother’s bedroom behind her, careful not to wake her up. 

„It went well.“ Her father smiles at her from across the room, shrugging into his jacket. „To be honest, I havena seen yer mother this content in a long while _.“ _

She sighs, crossing her arms over her chest. „Hmm, aye. I think she remembers ye from when you were young. She doesn’t recognize me anymore most days.“

He crosses the room in two big steps, enveloping her in his strong arms and she releases a breath that has been stuck in her throat, inhaling her father’s familiar, comforting scent, feeling the soothing softness of his jacket’s worn leather under her palms.

„Ye’re being a wonderful daughter to her,  _ a leannan.  _ I’m so proud of you, ye ken? And ye can call me anytime if ye need someone to watch her, I dinna mind.“

He kisses the top of her head and she sighs again, reluctantly letting go of him and following him to the door. He has to duck his head just slightly, stepping through it into the stairwell and she smiles to herself. Her father, the soft giant, the protector, the president of the charter.

„Thanks, Da. Tell Claire I said hi, okay?“

She closes the door only when she can’t see him anymore and the echo of his footsteps on the stairs has faded away. From the counter by the door she picks up the mail and distractedly sorts through it, balling up a takeout menu and an ad for a car dealership and tossing them into the trash when she reaches the kitchen. She opens the fridge and scans its contents, then closes it again, regretting for a second that she threw away that menu, but deciding it was too late to eat anyway. She eyes the two letters left on the table, sighing for the third time since arriving home. 

Drawing up her shoulders, she sorts them both into the piles of unopened letters on the shelves – the bigger one with the unpaid bills, the smaller one with the growing stack that she can’t open, won’t open, but can’t bring herself to throw away yet. She knows what it says, because she opened the first one, and she’s missed the appointments for the lab tests ever since. She doesn’t want to know. Not yet, possibly never. 

Her mother smiles at her from the picture on the living room wall, a radiant smile, full of unbridled happiness. It’s a healthy smile, a present smile, one from before dementia.

___________________________________________________________________

 

Fergus watches her stretch like a lazy cat on his sheets, his fingers spread on her belly, following the dip of her hipbone, not wanting to lose touch with her skin. He feels anchored, next to her in bed, in a way he hasn’t in as long as he can remember, and in a way he knows he won’t as soon as she leaves.

„Stay,“ he says hoarsely, voice coated with emotion and a remnant of the thirst she instills and quenches in him whenever they meet.

„Ye ken fine I can’t,“ she answers, turning towards him and propping her head up on her hand. Her tone is soft but final, the message one she’s told him a thousand times.

„I can quit. You could quit too. We could leave this place together.“ He argues because he can’t give up just yet, not because he really thinks it will change her mind. He’s said all of this to her before.

„It’s not that easy. Ye ken that as well as I do. And I have family here. I canna leave them. I canna leave my mother.“

He nods, and they’re silent for a while, him watching her closely, once more trying to memorize every line of her face, every lash, every speckle in her absent eyes.

„I love you, Marsali.“

The look in her eyes is so tender and melancholic, he wants to jump out of bed and punch something, crank the bike to full speed, get into a fight. Instead, he lets her kiss him, tastes himself on her lips along with the borders between them, lingering before his inner eye when she gets up and dresses, bending down to smooth the hair out of his forehead gently in a quick gesture of affection.

He opens his eyes to see her standing at the door, lingering, and for a short moment hope flares up violently in his chest until he sees her expression.

„Ye ken I can’t,“ she says again, an echo of her own words, heavy with meaning. „I’m not meant to have a big romance in my life. It’s better that way, I promise.“

And she leaves, as she always does.

  
  



	2. Two

Fergus has felt the irritation crawl under his skin all day, like tiny little insects, hooking their hairy legs into every crevice, every artery, every synapse, laying their eggs on their quest to populate his every thought. He thought Marsali’s touch would make it better – her hands wrapped around his middle on the bike, her smooth skin under his hands and lips. But she hasn’t brought him any semblance of peace, not today.

Instead, she’s a sounding body to his vibrations, picking up the current of anger and frustration running through his veins and throwing it back at him, magnified and dangerous.

He isn’t gentle with her, and she spurs him on, as if challenging the fragile illusion of peace to implode and tumble to pieces, as if walking the edge excites her, and it isn’t lost on him that her behaviour in the face of his unrest says a lot about their relationship – the game they’ve been playing for too long, that she refuses to transform into something more real, more solid.

It’s only after – when they’re lying side by side in the wide bed, spent and heated, avoiding any more touch, that he realizes the crawling sensation has left him, his anger erupted in the heat of their joining. The silent emptiness it left behind is worse, still.

„Why do you continue to come?“ he asks, a bitter taste on his tongue – the taste of weakness. He’s not comfortable with this needy side of himself, this side that can’t stay away, this side that asks her to stay again and again.

„Ye’re a damn good fuck,“ she teases, but it’s half-hearted and they both know it. He sees the fire flicker behind her blue eyes when he turns to look at her and welcomes the bite of its flames reaching for him – anything to fill the void. He presses on.

„You refuse to quit the gang, you won’t let me quit either. You never answer my declarations or pleas, yet you always come back to me. Why?“

Marsali sits up abruptly, reaching for her shirt and swinging her pale legs over the edge of the bed. The set of her shoulders is tense and she doesn’t look at him when she snaps. „What do ye want me to say, Fergus?“

„I want you to admit you love me.“

It comes out a little too loud, a little too forceful, but he doesn’t care. This has been brewing inside him for weeks, a dark, bubbling mess long overdue to spill that he desperately needs out of his system. He wants clarity – all or nothing, to have her admit her feelings or provoke her until she finally walks out on him for good.

She’s on her feet now, moving through the room quickly, in jerky, angry motions, her body radiating stress, the stony expression of her face telling him she’s struggling to keep her walls up.

„Admit it!“ he says, even louder this time, crawling to the edge of the bed. He’s naked still, but he doesn’t make a move to get dressed. He wants to force her to be open and honest, to be naked with body and words.

„Admit it, or tell me you’re just coming back here because you need to get fucked so bad, because your shitshow of a gang doesn’t have one decent man who serves you as well as I do, because you’re a damned whore who doesn’t care one iota about who she’s hurting. Say it!“

He’s almost screaming at her now, the words purposely harsh blows, chosen to tear down her walls, chosen to make her react. It’s selfish of him, but he feels he might disintegrate, might lose himself completely if he stops.

„I do, okay?!“

It’s something between a sob and yell and he’s at her side in seconds when she drops to the floor crying.

„I do love ye,“ she admits, much quieter now, arms wrapped around herself, as if trying to protect her from falling apart now that the walls of protection have fallen.

„Are ye happy now?“ Her voice rises again, and she lifts her head to stare at him defiantly through a curtain of tears. He thinks about that – tries to pinpoint his feelings, to interpret the turmoil in his stomach, but she’s not finished.

„It doesn’t change anything, don’t ye get it?“ The look of despair on her face scares him, and he reaches for her arms, trying to become a part of the forlorn embrace she’s wrapped herself in. 

„Ye dinna even know my last name.“

He wants to protest, wants to tell her he’ll happily learn every little detail about her life – how she drinks her coffee, how she ties her shoes, what colour her shower curtain and oven mitts and toothbrush are – but the words die on his tongue at her merciless stare, and her next words feel like a stab with a knife. Brutal, painful, inflicting an irreversible wound.

„My name is Marsali Fraser. My father is James Fraser, president of the Mongols’ Badlands charter. My mother is Laoghaire Mackenzie. She has early onset dementia. I moved back in with her a year ago, because she can’t live alone anymore.“ 

Fergus suddenly wishes he had dressed. He feels exposed, Marsali’s words a cold storm attacking him full force, her face a mask of pain he feels mirrored on his own.

„We’ll find a way,“ he says, a weak attempt at gaining some semblance of control over this chaos. He doesn’t believe it, and she doesn’t either.

„I canna leave, Fergus.“ Her voice is tender now, as she bends towards him and presses a soft kiss to his lips. It’s salty and wet from her tears, and he feels stranded, disoriented. „I’m sorry.“

And then she rises and leaves, but he can’t move. Glued down to the carpet he hates himself for being naive enough to believe that all or nothing was possible, for not seeing this coming. She loves him, but he will never have her. It’s all  _ and  _ nothing at the same time. 

 

___________________________________________________________________ 

She’s picking out cereal when her phone rings, the melody of her favourite song echoing off the boxes stacked on the aisle. She curses under her breath at her treacherous mind, immediately flitting to Fergus. They danced to this song. Made love while it played in the background. He wouldn’t call though; he only ever texts. And he won’t text anymore, now that they stopped pretending. She swipes at her phone angrily, without checking to see who’s calling. 

„Yes?“

„Marsali, good! Don’t freak out, okay?“ Claire’s voice sounds pretty close to freaking out herself, although it’s clear she’s making a conscious effort to stay calm. Marsali immediately goes into emergency mode, her feet carrying her towards the exit, the groceries in her cart abandoned.

„What happened? Did she hurt herself?“

The memory of the big blister on Laoghaire’s forearm from when she had turned her back to the hot stove for just a second makes Marsali feel nauseous and triggers more images – images of every possible danger in their house, every step you could fall, every corner you could hit your head on.

„She got out. I’m looking for her now, and Jamie is in your apartment in case she comes back. I’m really sorry, love, I swear, I was only in the bathroom for a minute...“

Marsali has to swallow around the lump in her throat before she can answer. „It’s not yer fault,“ she finally manages to say, already climbing into the car. „I’m on my way. Let’s split areas to look – where should I go?“

She finds Laoghaire at the corner café her mother used to work at, where she smiles at the customers and cleans the tables. Louie, the owner, who’s called her only ten minutes after she hung up on Claire, squeezes Marsali’s shoulder. 

„It was really no trouble. She just went right to work.“

She forces herself to smile at him. „Thank ye, Louie. For not saying anything to her. And for calling me.“

„No biggie. Let me know if I can ever do anything to help.“ 

She gives him a grateful nod, her lips pressed together tightly to keep in the sob of exhaustion and relief she doesn’t want the world to hear. With a light touch to Louie’s arm, she turns and approaches her mother.

„Hi, Laoghaire. Let me take ye home.“ 

The soft tone is practiced, not even stumbling on her mother’s first name anymore – Marsali’s long since accepted the fact that addressing her with „Mam“ only agitates her, that her own mother can’t remember having a daughter.

„Is my shift already over?“ Laoghaire asks, looking over Marsali’s shoulder at Louie. 

„Oh yes, dear, you go right on home and enjoy your night,“ Louie smiles at her, and Laoghaire’s face lights up, and she lets herself be led out the café and towards the car.

___________________________________________________________________

„I found the brochures,“ Jamie says, and passes her a hot cup of tea. She avoids his eyes, burying her nose in the steam rising from the cup and coughing at the strong alcoholic fumes.

„Ye put whisky in that,“ she states with half a smile that he mirrors back at her.

„Thought ye could use it.“ They settle into the couch, and his clear blue eyes - so like her own – rest sternly on her. „Marsali,“ he prompts and she shrugs her shoulders.

„I havena taken the test.“

„Ye should. I think it might be time we find a good home for Laoghaire. It’s too much for ye to take care of her all the time. Ye should be able to live yer life. And not be afraid.“ His warm palm on her knee grounds her and she sighs and lets herself be comforted by his strong presence, his warmth and solidness and safety.

„What if I have it, too?“ she whispers, not looking at him.

He wraps his strong arm around her shoulder and draws her into his chest, enveloping her into the familiar scent of worn leather and aftershave.

„I dinna ken,“ he admits, „but it’s better to know than to wonder and fret, don’t ye think? And I’ll be here. Whatever happens, I’ll be here.“

  
  



	3. Three

She’s never been comfortable in hospitals. The harsh lighting and sterile smell, the hushed noises – all of it reminds her of too many motorcycle accidents, too many visits after gang fights, too many of Laoghaire’s diagnostic appointments. Marsali squirms in the uncomfortable chair, staring at her own reflection in the small room’s window, unable to see the dark parking lot beyond it. A ghost stares back – someone she has to work to recognize as herself. Her hair is unruly, her eyes are ringed with dark circles, her expression somber, haunted almost. She hasn’t slept in nearly two days, hasn’t been well-rested ever since she left Fergus’ apartment. 

Laoghaire stirs in the bed and Marsali jumps in her seat, but her mother doesn’t wake and she takes a deep breath. Her eyes are still scanning Laoghaire’s body, taking inventory of her broken wrist, her bruised cheek, the tear at her hairline, the swollen left knee – something she’s been doing several times every day since the fall down the stairs, something she can’t seem to shake.

„Miss Fraser, have you thought about exploring other options for your mother? It might be time to find a nursing home for her, for both your sakes,“ the hospital’s social worker told her the day before, her stuffy office filled with the sound of a ticking clock. Marsali only nodded and accepted the bunch of brochures, eager to escape the too small space, the implications of considering such a solution. The words haven’t left her, though, and neither has the feeling of uneasiness. 

She sighs and stands, resolving to channel her inner unrest into movement, to temporarily fill the icy hole in her chest with coffee. She takes the long way down to the cafeteria, which is closed at this hour of the day, but has a coin-operated coffee machine much better than any of the hallway vending machines on this floor. She stares at the white walls, the bland hospital art, the petrol green room number signs. She counts the steps as she descends the stairs, but it does nothing to calm her. The strain on her nerves is almost unbearable. Marsali is sure that any minute now she’s going to snap when she rounds the corner opposite the hospital entrance and almost collides with Dr. Taylor.

„Oh, Miss Fraser, you’re still here? Shouldn’t you get some rest?“ 

Marsali manages a wry smile. „I could ask ye the same thing, Dr. Taylor.“

The doctor laughs, a genuine, friendly laugh that shows her white teeth and the dimples in her dark cheeks. „I’m on my way out, actually. I’m glad I bumped into you before leaving, though. I’ve been meaning to tell you that we’ll have your test results ready by tomorrow and I’d like to see you in my office, say 10 am?“

She waits for the string of her nerves to snap, waits for the impact of the doctor’s kind words to hit, but instead of the violent crash she’s expecting, there’s only a feeling of surreality. For a second, Marsali has the impression that she’s watching herself from a distance, eerily indifferent to her own numbness, her own shock. She has to force herself to nod, to mumble her assent.

Dr. Taylor is already walking away, but she turns again after just a few steps, finding Marsali still rooted to the spot. 

„How’s your mother?“ she asks, and there’s real sympathy in her voice, a hint of worry in her dark brown eyes.

„She’s... not great,“ Marsali answers honestly, her voice cracking a little on the last word. Dr. Taylor nods.

„You get some rest, okay? And I’ll see you tomorrow,“ she says and it sounds like an order and a reassurance at the same time, like something her father might say to her. It makes Marsali smile despite herself. 

„Aye, I’ll see ye tomorrow.“

The fight with Fergus. Laoghaire’s fall. The possibility of having to place her in a home. Her own test results. Marsali’s mind is a battleground, a tangle of fear and pain and nerves, a virtual hell. It’s why it seems almost cruel, an unlikely twist of fate, when the moment after the door has fallen closed behind Dr. Taylor, it opens again and the quiet of the nightly hospital is broken by loud shouts for help.

Her body reacts before her mind is able to register the whole picture, and she takes in details while already moving; their jackets, identifying them as Hell’s Angels, the strained muscles in their shoulders, evidence of their struggle to hold up the slim figure in their middle. The blood on his face. The pain in his eyes.

She reaches him just when they set him down on a chair, one of them gesturing wildly at the woman behind the welcome desk. 

„Marsali?“ he says and it’s a question, his voice quiet, disbelieving. 

Her own voice is everything she would have expected it to be in her conversation with Dr. Taylor. There’s despair, terror. There are tears.

„Fergus. What happened?“

 

___________________________________________________________________ 

It seems all hospital offices are too small for comfort. Dr. Taylor closes the door behind Marsali and gestures for her to sit, moving to open the small window as if she can sense Marsali feels trapped. A cold breeze wafts in and Marsali is grateful for it; a reminder that the world keeps turning, that the seasons are progressing.

„Before I let you know the results of your blood tests, I want to go over the facts with you one more time,“ Dr. Taylor says as she sits down behind her desk, her calm gaze focused on Marsali, who just nods.

„You’ve decided to have your blood tested because your mother has early onset dementia, which can be hereditary. However, the results of this test will not conclusively tell you if you’ll suffer from the same disease.“

Marsali nods again. She knows all this, she’s had a lot of time to get informed.

„The test identifies certain genetic markers. People with mutations in certain genes are statistically more likely to develop early-onset dementia. We know your mother has tested positive for one of the markers,“ Dr. Taylor pauses and sorts through the papers on her desk. 

Marsali grits her teeth together, balls her hands so tightly she feels her nails cutting into the flesh of her palms. She holds her breath. She’s aware that no matter the results of the test, she could always develop the disease. She’s aware how little reassurance a negative result really holds. But she wants it, needs it. She needs to know that she can live her life without the sword of high risk hanging over her neck.

„Miss Fraser.“

Marsali hasn’t realized she closed her eyes until she opens them to meet Dr. Taylor’s smiling gaze.

„You do not have any of the mutations, you tested negative for all the genetic markers.“

And Marsali breathes. She breathes in the cold air wafting through the still open window and Dr. Taylor reminds her again, that the test results provide only an indication of what may or may not happen. And Fergus is lying in a hospital bed, bruised and battered, two floors up, because he deliberately got into a fight with some of her father’s men. And Laoghaire is lying in a hospital bed, bruised and battered, three floors up, because she fell down the stairs to the basement when Marsali hadn’t locked the basement door. And the hospital’s social worker is looking through nursing home brochures with her father five doors down. 

But Marsali breathes, and for the first time in days, she feels like the air is reaching her lungs. She feels like there’s a tiny sliver of hope. And where that tiny sliver grows, a plan slowly starts to take shape.

___________________________________________________________________

It’s raining when the procession of bikes reaches the cemetery, the roaring of motors drowning out the splatter of water against stone for just a moment before the bikes stand as still as their riders. 

Black is their everyday color, and only their somber expressions hint at the special occasion. The pastor has held gang funerals before, but never one like this, he realizes with worry, when he stares at the mix of Mongols and Angel signs on the jackets of the assembled. They’ve come together, and it seems they’ve come in peace. He hadn’t really believed in it until now.

„Hatred stirs up conflict, but love covers over all wrongs. Proverbs 10:12.“ The pastor’s voice raises over the cries of heaven as the heads of the assembled men and women rise at his words.

„We lay to rest your children,“ he continues, „who, despite their youth, knew the truth of God’s word in their hearts. Marsali Fraser and Fergus St. Germain have loved deeply. Their love crossed borders, and stood safe in the middle of a stormy sea of conflict that finally consumed them. Let us remember that love and let us honor it by calming the conflict between us.“

Jamie Fraser is a wall of stone, a picture of hard edges. Claire softly squeezes Jamie’s hand, her face hidden in his shoulder, and after a moment of hesitation he squeezes back.

„Marsali and Fergus’ love has endured great conflict. It is now, on this day, reason and incentive for us to come together as they have, to cross borders as they did. May you be united in love and grief for your children as they have been united in love for each other.“

Nobody moves when the pastor ends his speech. The rain is too loud in the silence of their shared grief, too warm on their icy skin. It’s a day to be marked – the day they buried Marsali and Fergus, the day they’ve let a semblance of peace enter their hearts.

Jamie and Claire are the last to leave the cemetery. Jamie’s phone rings just when he sits down on the bike’s saddle and he shuts off the motor again before picking it up.

„How did it go?“ she asks and he thinks he must imagine the tinny quality to her voice – modern technology doesn’t bother with distance as much as the heart does, after all.

„All according to plan,  _ a leannan,“  _ he assures her, and Claire smiles at him. „Ye’re safe?“

„Aye, Da, we’re safe.“ She sounds full of wonder, as if stunned this crazy plan of hers has worked, has somehow spit them out safe and sound on the other side of the border.

„Yer Ma?“

„They say she’s adjusting well. We’re going back to visit her on Sunday. I have a good feeling about this, Da.“

It takes him a moment to answer her, emotions warring in his chest. The pastor was right, he decides for himself. There have been too many wrongs in this story, too many obstacles in his daughter’s path. But however winded the way, however dramatic and unusual the means, love covers all the wrongs.

„Me too, Marsali. Me too.“


End file.
